


Inheritance

by palmtreelights



Category: iZombie (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bad Parenting, By a minor character, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Childhood, Dark, Death, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Horrible People Being Horrible, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Manipulation, Max Rager, Patricide, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, filling in the blanks, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 05:50:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10713492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palmtreelights/pseuds/palmtreelights
Summary: “You’re going to grow up to take everything he’s worth, mark my words.” -- In the end, her mother was right.





	Inheritance

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the usual suspects for seeing from the start that my claims that "this will be short" were a complete lie. (Naturally, I was the only one who believed the lie.) "I don't see myself writing iZombie fic" was also a lie, but I think we all fell for that one. It would've remained true if not for Rita. Never forget the redhead in the green dress.
> 
> This fic contains alcohol abuse, terrible parenting, casual attitudes towards murder, and a casual mention of suicide. The first three are par for the course with Rita and Vaughn and so pretty much unavoidable throughout. But if you want to avoid the casual suicide talk bit, it's in the chunk where Rita goes to her mother's house one summer when she's in college. It's only a few lines, and it goes by fast, and it might not even qualify for the warning, but here's the heads up anyway. The rest of the scene is pretty important, though.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! It was a lot of fun writing these horrible, terrible, awful people.

* * *

 

They think she’s asleep, wrapped in warm sheets and fuzzy blankets with pastel-colored butterflies and flowers on them, deaf to the arguing that makes its way down the hall and under her bedroom door.

Rita is ten years old and home from boarding school for a long weekend. Her stepfather must have forgotten that.

“If you hadn’t gone and fucked _Vaughn Du Clark—_ ”

“If you hadn’t decided to start taking all those ‘business trips’—”

“Don’t blame me for your drunken _accident_!”

“ _Do not_ talk about my daughter that way!”

When she was smaller, Rita thought they would split up, and that she and her mother would have to go live with Grandma. Now, she knows better. She understands that her situation is far more normal than it seems except for the names involved, that rich people put up with a lot for the sake of appearances, and that her mother, her father, and her stepfather are willing to give her anything she wants so she’ll be well-behaved, a model daughter in spite of her family situation.

When she was smaller, the fights used to give her nightmares; now, they fuel her greatest dreams.

 

* * *

 

Her visits with her dad are brief, but Rita learns to read him quickly, in part because she’s smart on her own, in part because her mom won’t shut up about how much of a jackass Vaughn Du Clark is.

“I know,” says Rita, thirteen, master of the art of rolling her eyes. “I get it. ‘Don’t trust him. He’s a liar.’ Got it. Just stay over, play nice, take the money he gives me, and come home.”

“And _don’t tell him anything_ about conversations we have here,” her mother reminds her. “He’ll take even the most normal thing and make it into something it’s not, just so he can spread rumors. Your stepfather hates that.”

“But _you_ don’t give a shit.”

“Excuse me? _Language_ , young lady.”

Rita rolls her eyes again. “Fine. Sorry.”

Her mother sighs, folding her arms across her chest, checking Rita’s outfit yet again. It’s clean and well-coordinated, like everything else in her bag, but her mother is meticulous. Rita can’t judge her for it too much, though; after all, it got her a husband who’s richer than her parents, and regular, hefty child support payments from an up and coming Seattle businessman.

“Good to go,” says her mother, and she crosses the space between them to wrap Rita in a hug. There’s the faint smell of liquor on her breath when she kisses Rita on the forehead. It’s her signature scent, a sometimes subtle undertone to her perfume.

Outside, a car horn honks. It’s not her father, just his driver coming to pick her up.

“See you Sunday,” she tells her mother.

She grabs her bag and walks outside, not looking back.

 

* * *

 

“My dad said he saw your mom drunk at a party last weekend,” Jennie, Rita’s suitemate at school, says. “Isn’t that how she ended up having you?”

Rita flips a page in her textbook, barely sparing Jennie a glance. “You know, instead of asking me about ancient history, you should be grilling me about where I saw your boyfriend last night.”

In the space of a second, Jennie goes from smirking to frowning, her face pale in the glow of the fairy lights strung over Rita’s bedroom door. “He was at soccer practice.”

“And your dumb ass believes that?” Rita chuckles, shaking her head. “Bless your romantic little heart.”

“Where was he?”

Taking a deep breath, Rita looks up from her book and meets Jennie’s gaze. “Go check Lynn’s room. ‘Seek and ye shall find’ or whatever it is.”

Huffing, Jennie marches across the common area and into their other suitemate’s room. Rita waits, listening, counting off the seconds until Jennie shrieks and rushes back into Rita’s room, a pair of very wrinkled boxers in her hand.

“That _slut!_ ” Jennie yells. “I’m gonna _kill her_ , oh my _god!_ ” She doesn’t wait for a reply, and Rita wasn’t going to give one anyway.

No, she’s too busy laughing to herself over the condom wrapper she left in Lynn’s wastebasket and the sheets currently in the wash. Jennie’s boyfriend won’t tell on her for fear of facing an even worse meltdown, and Lynn can’t deny the evidence Rita planted in her room. She’s got a front-row seat to the blowout of the month, icing on the cake of her extended birthday celebration.

“Happy sweet sixteen, Rita,” she murmurs, and goes back to her studying.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks before the end of the summer before her senior year at boarding school, Rita’s mother wakes up with a hangover and a nasty attitude.

“If you’re going to bring boys over while I’m out,” she says as Rita makes herself an espresso, “you could at least be more discreet about it.”

“Why,” Rita asks flatly, glancing over her shoulder at her mom. “It’s not like you’re here when they are.”

“Because people talk.” Her mom sighs into her mug of black, unsweetened coffee. “And you’ve seen what talk will do to a marriage.”

As the espresso machine does its thing, Rita rolls her eyes. “I’m sure I’ll be _fine_ , as long as I don’t get pregnant.”

The _like some people_ is left unsaid, but it comes across clear enough that her mother slams her mug on the countertop.

“Even if I’d slept with half the men at that show, I’d know you’re his.”

“Whatever.” Shrugging, Rita shuts off the machine and reaches for a roll of paper towels. “You spilled your coffee.”

For a while, her mother is silent, watching Rita bring the roll over and leave it on the table. They have something like a stand-off, as if to judge which one of them will crack and say the first word, but then Rita rips off some sheets and starts to mop up the spill.

Her mom doesn’t watch her as she works, instead staring into what’s left of the coffee in her mug.

“You won’t find the meaning of life in there,” Rita mutters, giving a quiet but derisive laugh.

“Do you think he cares about you?”

Balling the used paper towels in her hands, Rita meets her mother’s gaze. “No less than you do.”

Her mother snorts, shaking her head, wincing against the headache from another night of too much partying. “He doesn’t. Vaughn Du Clark only cares about himself.”

“And I’m the same, right?” Rita smirks and arches an eyebrow. They’ve been through this song and dance before. Hard liquor brings out her mother’s worst side, the face she hides behind the mask of the perfect socialite.

Her mom’s shoulders shake in a quiet laugh that builds until it’s like she’s drunk and thinks the word _orange_ is somehow dirty.

It used to hurt. Now it’s barely even like the dull prick of a needle at the doctor’s office. “I love you too, Mom.”

“You’re so much smarter than him,” her mother says. Now when she meets Rita’s gaze, her smile is almost fond. “You’re going to grow up to take everything he’s worth, mark my words. Sure, roll your eyes at me now, but trust me when I say that you’ll find out _exactly_ the kind of man he is sooner rather than later. He’s building that company of his up to be _huge_. That takes brains, I’ll give him that, but he’s just like any other man, Rita. Worse than, and stupider.”

By the time her mother is done speaking, Rita has tossed out the dirty paper towels, made her espresso just the way she likes it, and gone back to stand across the counter from her. She takes a sip—it tastes perfect—and replays the words she’s just heard. Smarter. Stupider. That sounds like it cancels out.

“Not much of a compliment on my intelligence when you compare me to an idiot.”

“See?” Her mom leans back in her seat, nodding at her. “So much smarter.” She points, like a drunkard who thinks they’ve found the true nature of the universe in whatever they’re looking at. “You’ll see what I mean, honey. You’ll see.”

Sighing heavily, Rita rolls her eyes. “I have a day at the spa scheduled. Try to be over your hangover by the time I’m back?”

Her mother is still chuckling to herself and shaking her head, and the sound of her voice follows Rita all the way to her room, a ghost that’s haunting her long before its time.

 

* * *

 

“Rita,” says her history teacher, after class one day. He waits until the other students have left the room, then asks, “Are you doing okay?”  
  
She guesses it’s because of the paper he just handed back today, the one she wrote on emperors and conquerors or something—she can’t remember, she was high when she wrote it, on fire with the urge to emulate those men and take her dad’s company for herself.

“Never better,” she answers, holding up the paper marker A+.  
  
“I heard about your parents,” her teacher continues, because he cares, the poor goddamned sap. He sighs, compassion written all over his face. That kindness makes Rita sick. “Divorces can be very difficult.”

“I’m fine,” she says, shrugging, smirk never faltering. “Mom’s getting good money out of it, plus the house. My stepdad could’ve gotten it _way_ worse.”  
  
She could give two shits about the disaster that has been her mother’s so-called marriage. It’s never mattered, built on lies and the fractured remains of the relationship that a single dalliance destroyed, full of gossip and fighting and cheating, over and over. Textbook bullshit.

“Besides,” she adds, seeming to brighten, “I can always stay with my dad if I can’t take it.”

Her teacher gives a smile that doesn’t quite make it to sincere. Everyone has heard of Vaughn Du Clark, both the good and the dubious at best. “Do you have a good relationship with him?”

“Oh, yeah,” Rita lies, her smirk softening somewhat. “He gets me better than anyone.”

“Good.” Her teacher sighs again, visibly relaxing, though he’s still frowning. “Good. But if you ever need to talk to someone—”

“Guidance counselor.” Rita nods. “I know. Thanks. I have homework to get to. Bye!”

She gives him her brightest grin and heads off, ready to fake cramps to get out of phys ed and spend the class period having a screwdriver and planning how best to play her parents next.

 

* * *

 

Careful scheming, plus her mom’s money now and then, keep Rita’s record squeaky clean through the rest of high school, ensuring she gets into the best college her dad can afford.

She doesn’t crash and burn like some of her fellow freshmen, kids who are rich like her but reckless— _unlike_ her—because she’s used to the lack of parental supervision that comes from living away from home. It’s just another four years in school, with homework and parties and sex, only now she gets to live in her own apartment.

That, by far, is the best, the first real freedom she has, the biggest adjustment for her. No badly muffled arguments over the phone, no financial news droning softly in the background, no weekends where she wonders if her mom will get home before sunrise after another night at a music festival—just privacy and serenity.

She goes back to her mother’s house in the summer to drop off some old clothes and make room for new ones. The front door is unlocked when she gets there, and after leaving her bags in her old room, she follows the smell of smoke out onto the patio, where her mother sits under the shade of an umbrella, a martini glass on the table in front of her, a half-smoked cigarette in her hand.

“Are you _trying_ to kill yourself?”

“Why not?” Her mother shrugs and blows out a stream of smoke. “I’ve done enough to my liver as it is. May as well end it all before it gets worse.”

Rita clenches her jaw, but otherwise doesn’t answer right away. A year on her own has taught her that her mother has wasted all the opportunities life has given her, and now here she is, giving up, or thinking about it.

“That is _exactly_ what I came home to hear.”

“Come sit here.” Her mother waves her over, gestures to the chair next to her. “I’m glad you’re home, even if you didn’t make the trip for me.”

The smoke drifting up from the end of the cigarette doesn’t part for Rita, instead sticking to her worse than a spiderweb. She sits, looking over at her mother, and it’s in this light that she sees the yellow hue her skin has taken.

“You weren’t joking about your liver.”

Her mom takes a long drag of her cigarette, turning her face skyward as she holds her breath. She’s elegant even now, when sickness has made itself known, written itself on her body for the world to see.

“Listen to me,” she says, shutting her eyes as she blows out smoke. “Carefully.”

Rita takes a slow breath and forces her voice to sound even. “I’m listening.”

“Your father owes us.”

“Mom—”

“ _Listen to me_ , Rita.” She waits a moment, and when Rita stays quiet, she continues. “Your father owes us. The _least_ he could’ve done is what he did: accept that you’re his daughter, spend time with you now and then, and pay child support and all your tuition, even now. But you know what he didn’t do? Really be a _father_.”

“Please,” Rita scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Like either of us needed him around.”

“He built himself a kingdom and threw us the scraps,” her mother says, “like that’s good enough.”

“It’s more than most affairs yield.”

“It’s _bullshit_.” The vehemence in her voice induces a coughing fit, and of all the things she could do, she grabs her martini and takes a gulp.

“Oh, _stop_ , I’ll bring you some goddamned water—”

“It’s bullshit,” her mother repeats, setting her glass back down with a sigh. “And he thinks he got away with it—”

“Because he thinks he’s so smart,” Rita finishes. “I know. You keep saying—”

“Vaughn Du Clark. Smartest man in the world until you stroke his ego. Then he’s like all the rest.” She laughs, a deep, quiet sound. Turning her head, she looks at Rita with tired, yellowing eyes, absently flicking the ash off her cigarette. “Max Rager should belong to you. That company and all it’s worth should belong to you, and don’t you ever forget that. Don’t ever feel sorry for your piece of shit father, you understand me? _Never_. Look what he did to us, look where he left us. A big, empty house, a ruined reputation.”

“Maybe he ruined yours,” says Rita, “but not mine. If he ruins my name, he ruins his.”

“That’s—” Her mother gives that quiet, low chuckle again, pointing as she takes one last drag of her cigarette before putting it out on the ashtray on the table. “That’s my girl. That’s my girl.”

Yes. Her girl, and Vaughn Du Clark’s. She’s the product of a fling, a reminder of something that should never have happened. The only person who seems not to care about any of that is her father himself, but she doesn’t say as much. It’s not worth the aggravation of hearing another speech from her mother, not when there’s tanning to be done and clothing to be bought.

Rita doesn’t care about the past. All she wants is a future at the top, and that’s what her dad is going to give her when he dies.

“I’m going shopping,” she says, standing. “For fuck’s sake, sober up. I don’t want to come home to you passed out or worse.”

“Death’s not the worst thing that could happen to someone, hon.”

“Right,” Rita says, heading back towards the house. “Vaughn Du Clark is.”

 

* * *

 

Near the end of Rita’s junior year, her mother dies.

“It was so sudden,” says her aunt. “At least she went in her sleep.”

Rita takes her finals ahead of everyone else and goes home for the funeral. Her father, as expected, does not attend, so when it’s all said and done (her mother is buried in the family plot, in a casket that cost three times as much as Rita’s dress, and Rita stands there for a minute in silence, trying to figure out how she feels), she heads to the company headquarters to see him and begin to get what’s hers.

The receptionist lets her in right away. The words ‘death’ and ‘daughter’ carry too much weight to ignore.

“Rita,” he says as the receptionist walks out of the office, the doors shutting behind her. He’s smiling and frowning, a pantomime of what he _should_ be feeling. “I’m so sorry about your mother.”

He has the good grace to drop the smile then.

“I’m sure you are,” she tells him. “That’s why you were at the funeral in my time of need.”

Hissing through his teeth, he gestures at his computer screen, where his schedule most assuredly is _not_ on display. “I’ve been tied up for weeks. New flavor of Max Rager’s being released soon, and _hah_ , would you _believe_ how many meetings marketing drags me to?”

“Being that I’m in business school, yes, I can.”

“About that.” Another hiss, this time framed with a wince as looks up at her. “As proud as I am that you’re attending such a prestigious college, have you seen your tuition bill?”

He pauses, and in those few seconds, her mother’s words ring loud and clear in Rita’s head: _Don’t ever feel sorry for him._

“It’s a _lot_ of money, kiddo. I just can’t afford it anymore.”

Even though she expected this, she tenses, clenching her jaw and taking a slow, deep breath through her nose. They’re here in the top-floor office of the building designed and paid for by his multi-national corporation, and he claims can’t afford the tens of thousands of dollars her degree is costing? It’s almost impressive, how casually he plays it, how he knows it’s a lie but he commits to telling and selling it anyway.

“You’ll be fine, though,” he adds, nodding as if it’s all coming to him now, as if he hasn’t been rehearsing this conversation long before she came here. “You’re getting your mom’s money and property. That _should_ be enough to get you through to graduation, right? And you can always get a job, take out a loan or two if you want to go to grad school—”  
  
“ _This_ is how you’re helping me get over Mom’s death?” Rita snorts, crossing her arms, and stares him down—literally, because she’s standing across from him as he sits at his desk. “Heartwarming.”  
  
“It makes for a good sob story,” he tells her, shrugging. “It builds character. Besides, you should think about getting a job now anyway. It’ll look good on your resume.”  
  
“Fine.” She lifts her chin and stands as tall as she can. “You have openings in the company. Hire me.”  
  
He exhales, dramatic and fake-troubled, glancing around the office as if the answers are in the ugly paintings on the walls or the plants on the windowsill. “No offense, pumpkin, but you’re not qualified for any R &D positions, you have no experience in sales…” He frowns. “Maybe marketing?”  
  
“Don’t bullshit me, Dad. I did my research. You need an assistant. No one knows you better. If I’m going to run the company when you die, that’s the best head start you can give me.”  
  
“ _Ouch_.” He lifts a hand to his heart, feigning offense. “I love you too, sweetheart.”  
  
She rolls her eyes.  
  
There’s a long pause where he deliberates, all but literally saying the words _hem_ and _haw_. Finally, he throws up his hands and says, “All right, I’ll work something out.”  
  
“You’ll make me your assistant,” she stresses, “with full salary and benefits.”  
  
He laughs, all business, all shit-eating grin. “You drive a hard bargain.” Sighing, he softens his smile. “That’s my little girl.”  
  
She’s not little anymore, and he has no idea who he’s dealing with, but he’s right about one thing: she’s his daughter. That’s an advantage she plans to use to its full potential.

“Let me know when I have to come in and sign paperwork. I’m dealing with Mom’s estate for the next week, so I’m in the area.”

“Will do, my angel.”

She gives him a small, tight smile before she turns and leaves.

 

* * *

 

Her official title is _Assistant to the CEO_.

It’s a summer job while she’s still in school. Despite the label of ‘assistant,’ there’s more to it than making her dad’s appointments and sending out administrative emails. Little by little, as she proves her competence, he tells her more about the board members, about his plans for a new drink line, about the publicity the company gets by sponsoring athletes known for their creativity in their sport.

Rita learns more in one summer than at any of the classes she takes for her bachelors and MBA combined.

“You know,” her father says to her one day, “I think you’re onto something with this whole successor thing. Yeah. I can see it. This company going from one Du Clark to another. The board’ll go crazy for it if you play it right.”

“I’m sure you’ll play them right.”

“See, _that’s_ the kind of thing that isn’t taught. That kind of forward thinking, that… _je ne sais quoi_. You either have it or you don’t, and you, my dear, have it.”

It’s true, she does, but her father doesn’t hand out compliments for no reason. She narrows her eyes but is otherwise still. “I’m not going to turn into your coffee delivery person, if that’s why you’re flattering me.”

“Why would I _want_ something?” He sighs. “You have _such_ little faith in me.”

“The point, please? You have a meeting in five.”

All at once, his expression goes serious.

If Rita didn’t know any better, she’d believe he meant to be taken as such.

“I want to extend you a job offer. _Not_ this. Not the whole assistant thing. It might look that way on paper, but it’d be more than that. I’m going to show you how to run this company so that when I die, the board will be _begging_ you to fill my shoes.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Because that wasn’t the plan already?”

“I had to be sure. I had to know you could handle it. Truth be told...” He trails off for a moment, wincing. “There’s still a lot you haven’t seen. Who knows, you might decide you hate it here and go somewhere else. That’s fine. You do you. _But—_ ”

And here he takes a breath, holds it, and walks over to her, placing his hands on her shoulders.

She stays put, unmovable, unshakable.

“ _But_. If your time here has shown me anything, it’s that _you_ , my one and only child, are exactly what this company’s going to need when the time comes.”

“So,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Is my new title _CEO-in-Training_? _Shadow to the CEO_?”

“Mmmnno. We’ll keep your title, but you’ll have more responsibility, and more authority.”

She shrugs. “Fine. I accept. Effective immediately, I presume?”

“Yes.” He gives her shoulders a squeeze and grins at her like he has to prove to an audience that he’s a very proud father right now. Pulling back his hands, he heads over to his desk and picks up the remote control by his keyboard. “First order of business,” he proclaims, gesturing to the chairs in front of his desk. “Let’s look at a few marketing demos, eh?”

Rita crosses to one of the chairs, sitting as he turns on the TV and the latest Max Rager jingle starts to play over footage of dirt biking. For a first lesson, it’s not so bad, but even if it were just poring over the numbers for the annual report, she’d embrace it.

Finally, all her work is starting to bear fruit.

 

* * *

 

Vaughn Du Clark may not care about her, but at least half the corporate staff is willing to prove they do.

Sure, there are dumpy accountants, harried-looking lawyers, and aging scientists who frequent the company gym, but there are also people who take pride in their looks and make it a point to use one of the nicest perks Max Rager offers.

Those, she allows to show how much they like her.

It’s a fringe benefit she hadn’t considered, but is glad for, especially when she learns Max Rager’s dirtier, darker secrets. There’s evidence to support the claims that the product causes violent episodes in a not insignificant number of users—and it was phrased that way by the scientist who reported it because, allegedly, Vaughn said he wasn’t concerned with the case in Richmond.

(Rita had a classmate once who said in response to a case study that _no_ ill effects on customers should be tolerated, but which one of them is currently debt-free and on her way to CEO within a reasonable time frame? Not Ms. Hippie, that’s for sure. So what if a few people have to die for Rita to get what she’s owed? What great conqueror never stepped in blood on their path to greatness?)

As long as she’s her dad’s second in command, Rita gets to work on some interesting assignments while letting him take all the credit. The risk of failure is always high with Vaughn Du Clark, but the reward is well worth it. Rita wants for nothing, dresses how she likes, has her pick of men to take home, and eats like royalty.

Vaughn Du Clark may not care about her, but his money treats her just as well as it treats him.

 

* * *

 

“Nice.”

Rita sighs heavily, staring up at the immaculate ceiling of her bedroom. “Are you _seriously_ checking your phone not five minutes after I rocked your world.”

“Cut me some slack,” Colin says, setting his phone down on the bedside table. “My dad’s birthday present shipped. He gets all passive-aggressive if I don’t give him a present the day of.”

“Doesn’t _that_ sound familiar.”

As she rolls her eyes, she feels Colin turn to face her and shift closer.

“Yeah?” he asks. “I figured your dad for a never-at-home type. You know, a workaholic.”

“That depends on what you define as ‘work.’”

“You know there’s a rumor he had one of your exes killed because the guy checked you out during a fancy party?”

“Why are you so bent on talking about Vaughn?”

“Wow, first name. Daddy issues much?” Colin laughs, leaning in to kiss her shoulder. “Hot.”

“You’re disgusting,” she says, pushing him away and tugging the sheets up over her shoulders. “Go finish packing. I can’t believe you’re taking a red-eye so you can make a bike race in the morning.”

“It’s for charity.” He sits up and grabs his shirt off the floor, snickering quietly. “I’ll sleep on the flight. You really tired me out, babe.”

“Whatever. Just build up some energy for when you get back.”

He makes a show of how reluctant he is to leave, but he does leave.

She doesn’t miss him once he’s out the door. He’s just another hookup from the company gym, gorgeous but as easy to play as any of the others. If she were looking to get married, she’d aim a little higher, but her future isn’t in a wedding ring or the words of a justice of the peace. It’s in the fortune amassed by her dad and all the luxury vacations said fortune will buy her.

With her current boy-toy gone, she gets up and pours herself a glass of wine. Finally, relaxation.

 

* * *

 

Rita doesn’t think about Colin again until she hears about the incident in Jackson in the form of an email from HR announcing his passing and the horrible accident that caused it.

The head of R&D freaks out, barging into her father’s office a few minutes before he’s done meditating.

“Vaughn, this is _serious_ ,” the scientist insists. “This is worse than Richmond. A loyal Max Rager drinker—”

“ _Ohm_ ,” Vaughn snaps. He sighs and opens his eyes, looking straight ahead rather than up at Rita or the scientist. “Do you know how many days you just shaved off my life by coming in here like that?”

“This is worth the attention—”

“Why’d you let him in?”

Rita gives a small shrug. “He seemed agitated. I thought he’d go into cardiac arrest if I made him wait.”

“But you didn’t think that _I_ might’ve gone into cardiac arrest with the interruption.”

“I’m not your doorman,” Rita answers, calm as ever. “But if you want, I can have HR put out a job posting for an assistant who’ll do more menial assisting.”

“Do that,” Vaughn says. “And as for you, my head nerd—there were multiple factors at play in this horrible, _horrible_ tragedy.”

The words sound rehearsed but sincere, or at least acceptably so.

She may hate him, but she gives him credit where it’s due: he knows how to play the game, how to spin pretty lies out of ugly truths.

“We need to recall the product,” says the scientist. “We can’t have it out there on shelves until we isolate the component of the formula that causes these episodes and remove it.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Her dad shakes his head, his back still as straight as when he meditates, or like when he’s addressing the board. “We strive for quality, and rage-outs are _not_ part of our goal. Ergo, the formula is in no need of changes. I mean, this truck driver could’ve been under a _lot_ of stress! There’s nothing unequivocally linking our product to the incident.”

“Vaughn, I’m sorry, but you’re not—”

“Could you leave us for a minute, Rita?”

Smiling—all politeness and ice—she heads out to take some initiative on doing damage control within the company itself.

Later that day, when the dust has settled and the sunset has begun to tint the sky orange and pink, Rita goes back to her dad’s office and asks, with no more preamble than a brief pause after she stops to stand in front of his desk, “You sure you didn’t cause an accident just to get Colin killed? It’s not like what he and I had was a secret.”

He ignores her at first, like a child absorbed in his game as he takes crushes an empty can of Max Rager. “He shoots—” He pauses to take aim, then tosses the can into the trash can across the office. “ _He scores!_ ”

“ _Bravo_.” Rita gives him a golf clap, rolling her eyes all the while. “Colin was harmless. I was bored.”

“My dear, _beloved_ daughter.” Her dad turns his chair so that he’s facing her, the fake sincerity on his face almost comical. “ _No one_ you date will _ever_ be good enough for you. Always remember that.”

“Aw.” She fakes a teary pout. “That’s sweet, Dad.”

“That’s the _truth_. Don’t get married, Rita.” He arches his eyebrows as he meets her gaze, like he’s telling her the secret to happiness. “Marriage is a relationship killer. _Although_ , if not for that very fact, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

“ _Wow_.” She laughs, a short, mirthless sound. “Way to ruin the moment.”

“But _no_ ,” he continues, as if he hadn’t stopped talking at all, “I didn’t suddenly decide to flip the berserk switch on some poor, innocent driver at just the right time to crash a charity bike race. You know me better than that. That’s bad publicity!”

“Since when has _that_ stopped you?”

“I’m wounded.” He leans back in his chair and puts a hand over his heart. “Right here. I’ve spent all day tidying up someone else’s mess, and now this.”

“You’ll live,” she says, “but Max Rager won’t if that memo gets out.”

His shoulders shake in a laugh that’s silent at first, then loud enough that she can tell it is, at least in part, sincere. He goes on for a full minute before finally he quiets down and looks up at her again. “Have you learned nothing?”

As he sits up, the gleam of amusement in his eyes goes cold and twisted, and Rita recognizes in it the man who had the ambition to build a company from scratch and grow it into what it is now.

“There is no room for error as far as the memo is concerned,” he says, his voice as icy as his gaze, sharp as steel. “So I’ve taken measures to make sure it stays locked up in the Max Rager vault. A little verbal exchange—face to face, of course—and _poof_ , the problem was solved. There is no _possible_ incentive that will seduce any of our people to share that piece of dirty laundry.” He pauses, shrugging. “I guess you could say it’s life or death.”

This is not the first time he’s mentioned death so casually, but it _is_ the first time he means it literally. He has issued a death threat to keep people quiet, and he’s prepared to act on it. There’s no bluff in his posture or his tone. Rita knows without a doubt that he would even have her killed if the need arose. Lucky for both of them, she needs the memo to disappear as much as he does. The company is her future. Being witness to its demise—worse, being implicated in hiding such a critical fact—would tank her carefully crafted plans for the years to come.

“Just checking,” she says, smiling. She can’t remember anymore a time when there hasn’t been something dark and sinister to her every grin. Things go better when she looks like she’s in control at all times. “Can’t let you get careless just because the company is so successful.”

He holds her gaze for a long moment, then relaxes back into his chair.

If he was testing her, she has passed; and if he wasn’t, then she has proven her loyalty. Either is good enough for her.

 

* * *

 

Maybe he does care about her. He must, at least a little bit, or else he would’ve turned her away the day she demanded a job.

Maybe her mother was right and he doesn’t care at all, maybe he’s just using her, maybe he has no intention of all but handing her the company when he retires.

Their relationship may be founded on uncertainty, but the rest of her life now is all crystal clear.

People learn to respect her not because of her name, but because she never lets them or even her father walk all over her. When she gives an order, it’s followed without question. When she walks down the hall, people step aside to let her through, like they know she has her father’s blessing to take the reins when he retires—or dies.

As the months go by, she spends less time monitoring her father’s schedule and more time monitoring the heads of departments. Who do they talk to, what do they talk about, do they take a working lunch or make sure to leave the building at mealtimes? If someone had told Rita she’d be something like a spy when she grew up, she would’ve laughed in their face, yet here she is, playing chess with people for game pieces when the situation calls for it, watching from the shadows or in plain sight.

Maybe her father doesn’t love her, but he trusts her, and that’s all she needs.

 

* * *

 

The first time she delivers bad news to him, she’s serious but calm. “There’s a mole,” she says, and as he squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep, calming breath, she stands tall and unafraid. Nothing could be worse than finding out that zombies are real and at least half Max Rager’s fault, even if this does come fairly close. “They have the memo and the emails about the rage-outs.”

Another deep breath later, he is serene again, save for the ice in his gaze.

“Find them,” he tells her.

“Consider it done.”

She gives him a cold smile, turns, and walks out of his office, allowing herself a small, breathy laugh on her way to the elevator. Then, she’s all business again, the hunt already begun.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t find the mole, but the Seattle PD’s people do, which is good enough for her. It’s almost a shame she isn’t there to see what becomes of her father’s assistant for what she dared to try and do, but another duty calls. Thanks to Sebastian’s carelessness, the memo and emails fell into some teenagers’ hands.

Getting the flash drive back from them is too easy. Throw out a number with more than three zeroes in it, and people will do whatever she asks of them. The murders are a bit much, in her opinion, but they won’t get traced back to the company. Max Rager will win, like always.

She’s far from their meeting place when the last kid standing’s car goes up in flames. He’s still alive, but her father doesn’t blame her for that. Her job was to retrieve the flash drive, and she has performed excellently. The police catch the teenager, tying up the final loose end in the matter.

Except for the kid’s unforeseen preparedness.

The memo finds its way to the press, and the headline that hits the paper the day it goes public is anything but kind. Rita holds her head high like she always does as she heads into her father’s office to deliver a copy of the day’s paper, but the glimpse she catches of her reflection in the glass door shows her a woman shaken and anxious. This is bigger than Richmond and Jackson, bigger than the Lake Washington massacre. It’s the source of those tragedies, and it’s going to hurt the brand and the bottom line.

Her father is meditating, like he does every morning. She watches him for a moment, poised and ready to speak up and draw him out of his ritual, but for once, she lets herself be a coward. She walks into his office, sets the unfolded paper where he’ll see it when he’s ready, and leaves before he has a chance to tell her to stay.

 

* * *

 

Somehow, he manages to keep Max Rager afloat in spite of the undeniable evidence the memo represents. If Rita learns nothing else from him after this, she’ll still be ready to face the world when she’s in charge of the company.

The development of Super Max proceeds as scheduled. In the meantime, Rita gets assigned to heavy duty spy detail.

“Pick a name,” her dad tells her, grinning, fake magnanimous. It’s wasted on her, but that’s never stopped him before. “Any name. Pick Fanny, for all it matters. Our first confirmed zombie needs a roommate, and I need to know every move she’s making. For the good of the company—and for the good of mankind, of course.”

She ends up picking Gilda, after her mother, may she rest in peace and not be watching as Rita pretends to be someone else in order to help end this plague.

And may she be proud as Rita talks her dad out of killing off both innocents and zombies out at sea, and into setting up extensive surveillance of their only known zombie.

“What, you think she’s got zombie friends that she goes on zombie play dates with?” He sighs, turning to look out his office window at the overcast Seattle sky. “I mean, it’s always _possible,_ but you would’ve noticed by now, right?”

Rita rolls her eyes. “It won’t hinder our efforts any to bug her phone. I can’t be around her every second of every day. There _has_ to be more information. I’m just not privy to it. Roommate or not, we’re still strangers.”

He snickers, looking over his shoulder at her. “And you care that much about the lives of these _other_ strangers, who may or may not be zombies.”

“Not really.” She shrugs. “I’d just rather not murder people. Zombies, however—different story.”

Nodding slowly, he turns from the window and meets her gaze. “You make a convincing if emotional argument. I’ll have the geeks downstairs set something up.”

This is not her first victory against him, but it’s one of the most important ones. His casual reaction to all the deaths that have resulted from his work have served to show her that her mom had actually had no idea just how awful Vaughn Du Clark is. Rita may be no better in some respects, but she has _some_ standards, some lines she won’t cross. If someone has to get their hands covered in blood by choice, let it be her father, and let her be able to stand before the board and say she would never have done what he has—exactly like he would do if their roles were reversed.

Her mother was right after all. Rita is her father’s daughter.

 

* * *

 

Olivia Moore is a loser, a zombie, and a terrible liar. The only thing that keeps Rita there is the plan, her mission, her task—and the fun she can have while she’s seeing it through.

She goes from “Olivia” to “Liv” to “roomie” in the space of an hour and makes a ritual of inviting her to watch _Zombie High_ together, eyes on Liv as she pretends she’s more worthy of life than the monsters onscreen. She offers Liv food and drinks just to see how she’ll answer questions about all that wasabi and hot sauce, and how she’ll respond to remarks about her dead taste buds. She makes up boring IRS office gossip to subject Liv to, tales of audits that will leave some people as good as dead, and of changes in the pipeline.

“Don’t blame _me_ for any of it,” she says with a shrug. “Wrong Washington. My office has no control over tax law.”

Liv laughs, shutting her eyes to hide the blankness in her gaze, the only evidence of how bored she is by her new roommate. Rita grins, a lioness poised to strike.

When her words prove true and surveillance yields a zombie hunter—what a relief, Rita thinks; it’ll be less messy this way—she basks in her success and the faint glimmer of what in any other father would be pride, but in hers is like a trap.

She won’t fall for it. Her mother’s words are a spell against his tricks. Rita is smarter, and she will get what she wants, with or without him.

 

* * *

 

Rita takes a long, deep breath and turns her head to look at Major, who lies at her side, gaze blank as he stares at the ceiling. Poor, pathetic goody-two-shoes. Hotness is about the only thing he’s really got going for him. Still, he serves a purpose, and if there’s one thing Rita has learned in life, it’s how to make men do what she wants them to do.

“You know,” she all but purrs, “if you’re half as good at killing zombies as you are at sex, there might be hope for humankind after all.”

His brow furrows, but his eyes remain unfocused.

“ _Aw_ ,” she coos, turning fully onto her side. “What’s wrong, don’t like having your _heroic_ job pointed out? Humble _and_ handsome. Lucky me.”

“Yeah.” He sighs out the word, glancing at her. “It’s all just luck. Or maybe it’s all about the consequences of our actions.” He gives a broad, forced grin, both eyebrows raised, like his words are darts he’s throwing at the ceiling. “Either-or, right?”

So predictable. They’re all the same, identical buttons in identical places, the same few variations of ego and blind trust, never thinking a woman could outsmart them with only a word.

“If you’d rather leave this all to Vaughn, be my guest,” she says, with a shrug. “But do you really want that on your conscience?”

Just like that, the fake smile drops from his face.

“Typical. Show a guy a good time, and he forgets his place, his _job_.”

“No, no. I haven’t forgotten. You’re always there to tell me what’s what.”

“Aw, don’t be grumpy, baby. Here.” She reaches out and trails her fingertips down his chest and stomach, slowing near his hips. “Just lie back and—”

He cuts her off with a hand around her wrist and a sharp but careful tug. Pulled off balance, she’s powerless to stop him pushing her onto her back. By the time he stills, he’s hovering above her, almost bare chest to bare chest.

Cute, how he goes for the illusion of control. He’s fun despite the brooding he gets to now and then. That’s what she likes about him.

“What a nice surprise.” She smirks. “Well done. Now why don’t you show me something else I won’t see _coming_.”

He won’t back down from a challenge, she knows that by know. She watches his eyes flash with guilt and lust and things she doesn’t care to discern, sees the moment where he chooses to take what’s being offered. Even though he’s gentle, she tastes the anger and resignation on his tongue.

Victory is the best drug.

 

* * *

 

Dr. Erving’s murder comes as a surprise.

Not her death—that was a given. Death by test subject attack or death by a carefully crafted _oops_ on her boss’s part was all but written into her employment contract.

 _Murder_ , though. Rita hadn’t expected that.

She also hadn’t expected Major to break things off with her so soon. Eventually, yes, but not while there were still so many names on the list.

She _really_ hadn’t expected him and Liv to get back together, and that, more than anything, leaves a bitter taste on Rita’s tongue. He would choose a dead girl walking over her when he knew her father ultimately planned to have Liv killed. Maybe it was some sad attempt at enjoying what little time he had left with her, or maybe he really so much of a good guy that he can’t help but go back to his zombie ex-fiancee.

Messing with them makes for a fun game, especially when she discovers Liv’s jealous streak.

Then it all falls apart. Major and Gilda meet for the first time, and his goody-goody brain forgets to keep up the ruse. He slips and calls her Rita, and Olivia Moore, for all that she’s a sad little girl on Max Rager’s kill list, puts the pieces together.

Gilda dies for good that night, but Rita doesn’t spare her late mother more than a passing thought as she vacates the apartment. She goes to her actual apartment, ices her eye, and drinks herself half to sleep.

That’s when she thinks of the late Gilda, strawberry blonde and thin as a reed, who preferred live concerts and the bottle to being the proverbial good mom. If nothing else, the drunkenness numbs the pain in Rita’s eye and keeps her in bed, where she decides to keep this failure to herself for the time being. She’ll tell her father when she’s ready, and she’ll follow it up with a new plan.

Always move towards your goals, she thinks, and falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

“ _Really_ , Major?”

It hurts to roll her eyes, but she does it anyway, because yet again, their resident zombie hunter has made a move for Rita long before she was ready for it. If things between them hadn’t already ended, she’d dump him as soon as this little meeting wrapped up. But as things stand, her dad is watching carefully as they go back and forth, as if he actually _cares_ who she brings home at night.

He doesn’t, and she doesn’t need her memories of her mother to tell her so. Her father is just enjoying the fact that he’s found out Rita has done what she scolds him so often for. She can picture it now—the door shutting behind Major, and her father calling her a hypocrite in an offhand yet creative way. The next few days will be miserable.

But then, a twist, one that features her father yelling and hurling her sunglasses at the ground. He looks like the Vaughn Du Clark she’s known her whole life, but the things he’s saying are not the norm. He sounds like a father—like a _dad_. Like one who’d land himself in jail because a boyfriend may have hit his daughter.

Part of her wants to see how far he’ll take this, to see if he really _does_ care this much about her, but it’s all so unfamiliar and potentially deadly that she goes in to de-escalate. She tells her dad the truth and sends Major away.

With the object of his fury gone, she’s able to make her father listen to reason.

“You can’t fire him,” she says, lowering her hands now that he doesn’t look ready to charge after Major and beat him to death. “And you can’t kill Liv. She’s our leverage.”

“There’s always a back-up plan,” says her father, his gaze still on the glass doors, as if he’s waiting for Major to come back. “A ship and a button can do the job. It’ll be quicker.”

“No. Just keep a closer eye on her.”

“You’re damn right I will.” He straightens and shuts his eyes, taking a slow, deep breath. On the exhale, his shoulders relax, but there’s still fury in his eyes when he opens them again and turns to face her.

No, not at her. He’s looking at the shiner Liv gave her.

“I want to watch her die,” he says. “I want to watch her watching Janko kill Major, and then I want to watch her die.”

“Fine. Sure,” Rita says. “But not yet. It’ll be better the longer you have to wait for it. _Don’t_ do anything crazy.”

This hadn’t been how she’d meant for him to find out about the abrupt end to her undercover mission, but it worked in her favor, so she settles for it.

He sighs, looks at the doors again, and nods.

Crisis averted.

 

* * *

 

Rita never formally studied human behavior outside of what little was covered in the standard school curriculum, where the term _survival instinct_ had been framed in the context of species continuity. Her gift for playing people had been honed through careful observation from the shadows. She’d learned early on how to hide in plain sight, and how to go unnoticed unless she wanted all eyes on her. It was modern-day survival, and she’d made herself one of the best at it.

Never once had she thought to train to fight. She carried pepper spray on her, had long nails to scratch with, keys to stab with. She didn’t need to know how to fight, didn’t need to risk a workout that might overdevelop her muscles and rob her of she sleek figure she’d so jealously guarded for so long. Even faced with the monsters born of trade secrets and a designer drug, she’d felt safe. They were in their cages, and there were weapons to keep them at bay if they got out.

Until the day it all goes wrong.

The harness fails. There’s not enough voltage in the shocks she deals the Romero that spells Dr. Lockett’s end. Her grace and comfort in her expensive shoes betrays her, and her dad—

Whatever had made him so enraged the day he’d thought Major had hit her, it’s gone now, swallowed by his fear of having his skull ripped open. Leaving her behind to suffer that very fate doesn’t move him, doesn’t tug at what few shreds of love or affection for her he might possess. In the few seconds their gazes meet before the elevator door shuts, Gilda’s memory says, “You’re just like your father,” and Rita sees the one way she’s not.

She needs a drink, and she needs time to process all of this, but her brain shuts those thoughts down and summons an almost primal instinct in her. She may be injured, and death may be a sure thing, but she won’t just let it happen to her. The will to keep on living overtakes her, and her fear of blood and gore and stains on her clothes disappears beneath the wild beating of her heart and the adrenaline pumping through her.

If she’s going to die, she’s taking the monster with her.

 

* * *

 

Her dad doesn’t let her in.

After how hard she’d fought, and after making it out alive—mostly—he doesn’t let her in. She begs and screams and pounds on the door, and all he does is stare.

He’s lucky there’s something more pressing than his betrayal on her mind: hunger.

Rita doesn’t need him, not now, not ever. He’s only good for building up the business she’ll get when he dies. Certainly not for finding brains, not when she knows where a reliable source lives and keeps her sustenance.

She still has her key to Liv’s apartment, and the locks are still the same. The shower is running when she walks inside and makes her way to the fridge. Easy, only a few seconds of searching before she finds what she hates herself for wanting so badly. Even frozen, that one tiny nibble is like a breath of fresh air.

Later, she’ll look back on this moment and realize she should’ve expected her father to send someone after her. She’ll look back and remember every careless thing she did in her quest to sate her hunger.

In the moment, though, all she does is gasp before the world goes black.

 

* * *

 

“It’s not personal,” her dad had said when she’d woken up on the other side of the glass wall. “Well, it is. I can’t exactly have you running around Seattle while you look for brains and plot my death. But no, seriously. It’s for your own good that I’m saying this, sweetheart: you’re grounded.”

As if she’d kill him now. How does he not get that she needs him alive _at least_ until the Super Max launch?

“Why am I here,” she asks him flatly one day when he comes to see her. She’s just eaten, lucky for him; the sight of him doesn’t make her any angrier than it did when she was human.

“Rita. _Honey_.” He smiles, patronizing, faking patience. “We’ve been over this: you’re dangerous like this.”

She grits her teeth and takes a slow, deep breath. “No. Why am I _here_. Why didn’t you just tell Janko to kill me.”

“What—isn’t it _obvious_?” Shaking his head, he gives a breathy laugh. “You’re my _daughter_. I want to be sure you’re safe while I have my _best_ people working on finding you a cure.”

“Right,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Safe. Like when you left me here to die.”

“You’re alive now, right? Well, mostly. That’s what matters, cupcake. Oh, speaking of food—you just ate, didn’t you? How are you feeling? Relaxed? Afraid of something strangely specific? Craving cupcakes, perhaps? Is there anything you want me to get for you?”

He talks so fast that she doesn’t have the chance to answer each of his questions; it’s a good tactic in the boardroom, and an even better one now. Of course he knows that, of course he comes to see her after she’s eaten. That’s when she’s least likely to be herself, when the brain she’s eaten starts to take hold and she doesn’t know how to adjust for it.

The last question triggers the beginning of it. Rita gets an itch in her hands and feels the ghost of cool, slim metal in her fingers, remembers the sound of needles clicking to a steady rhythm of _knit, purl, knit, purl_.

“Yarn,” she says, before she can stop herself. She runs her thumb over her fingers, a poor substitute for sensations she’s never felt but desperately needs. Stress knitter brain. _Fantastic_. “Knitting needles.”

Her dad’s eyebrows arch high up his forehead. “A pattern book, perhaps?”

“ _No_ ,” she snaps. She doesn’t need one. Her muscles remember dozens of simple patterns.

“All right.” Relaxing, he smiles at her. “You’ll have some yarn and needles within the hour.”

He turns and walks towards the door to the observation area, and just before he punches in the code to let himself out, he stops and whirls around again.

“Since you’re feeling crafty,” he says, tossing her a smile, “I’d _love_ a pair of fingerless gloves. That’s what the kids wear these days, right?”

She can’t hold back the anger that flares up in her then, even as she’s well aware he’s doing it on purpose. It’s too infuriating to see him make light of this when this is all his fault. She narrows her eyes, one eyebrow twitching as she watches him leave.

She slams her hand against the glass. Where’s the dad who wanted to strangle the guy he thought hit her? Where’s the father who yelled and raged because someone had given his daughter a black eye?

“He was never there,” her mom would say. “Vaughn Du Clark only cares about himself.”

Half an hour later, a scientist hands her a bag of knitting supplies, salt in the wound of her captivity. She takes it and climbs into bed, propping herself up with her pillows as she starts working on a scarf.

“For you, Dad,” she’ll say when it’s finished. “A soft, comfy noose, made with love, just for you.”

 

* * *

 

The subbasement is too far beneath the ground for the music from the party to reach her cell, but the real action comes to her anyway.

“Roomie” and “baby” and the looks of pure hatred from Liv and Major are familiar and comforting. Anger from them, she can deal with. Good guys are predictable. They’re her ticket out of here no matter what.

“Nothing up my sleeves,” she tells them as she heads for the console in the observation area. She gave back the knitting needles a few days ago, and her most recent meal was a sad and boring old man who’d spent his last few days fishing up north. By comparison, this is _fun_ , made all the more exciting by the knowledge that she’s sticking it to her dad.

Rita can taste victory when she and Major go to follow Liv and Babineaux, can smell the wet pavement of the city after a rainstorm. She’ll leave her prison for good, find another food source, and wait until the day her father dies. Now that she’s a zombie, it’s basically a guarantee that she’ll outlive him, and then she’ll take his money and hire some brainiacs to find her a cure, and it’ll be back to the good life.

There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. She can see it at the end of the corridor she and Major are heading towards.

And then the metal door shuts.

“ _Vaughn Du Clark only cares about himself.”_

As her dad toys with Liv, Rita’s blood boils, the monstrous instinct in her starting to rear its head. She’s here because of his disregard for any life besides his own. She’s here because she _doesn’t_ disregard others’ lives, not when their blood would be on her hands if they died. If she’d run when her father had that night, if she hadn’t tried to stun that zombie in the slim hope of saving Dr. Lockett’s life, she would’ve been on that elevator in time to ride it to safety.

She’d be standing next to her dad, safe and sound.

On the overhead monitor, she watches the zombies escape, bad enough on its own until her dad pretends to lament it.

“Honey, all our guinea pigs are escaping, and with them, your chances for a cure.”

In that moment, with nothing left to lose, she needs to know.

“Did you _ever_ care about me?”

He can couch it in supposedly justified anger all he wants, and he can say she’s a selfish, spoiled brat, but the word that lies behind his answer is all she needs to hear: _no._

__

Her life doesn’t flash before her eyes then; instead, Rita sees her future like pictures in an old photo album. Her dad’s funeral, the board instating her as CEO, the jetset life, the endless parade of flings and drinks and money. She watches it burn in the fire of her defeat, in the madness that overcomes her father as he rants and raves, as the poison gas starts to choke her and she lets go of her waning control over her mind.

__

Dimly, she’s aware of Major putting a bullet through the glass and her father’s hand, of him swinging the ax at the window that was supposed to keep them all trapped.

__

Her dad won’t make it up to his office. The blood on his fingers will confuse the scanner in the elevator and strand him here with the rest of them. He’s going to die, she thinks in her last few lucid moments. He’s going to die the way he thought she would that night. She’s going to watch it happen, as she and the full-on monsters at her side converge upon his cowering, helpless form on the elevator floor.

__

She’ll outlive her father and get everything he had, in the form of his brain, fresh and bloody and exquisite.

__

Major shatters the glass, freeing them from the poisoned air.

__

Rita’s eyes go black.

__


End file.
